Fire and Fog on San Francisco’s Streets
Fire and Fog on San Francisco’s Streets
Blog Article
San Francisco doesn’t reveal itself all at once.
It peeks through fog,
glows through neon,
and waits for you to listen.
I arrived on a cool October morning.
The wind carried salt,
and the fog hung low,
like a secret.
Cable cars clanged up impossible hills.
Murals covered alleyways like stories in color.
In Chinatown,
the scent of roasted duck met jasmine tea.
And just like that,
I was home in a place I’d never been.
I climbed Lombard Street,
slowly.
Every step a photograph.
Locals passed without looking up.
Tourists smiled at every turn.
I paused halfway,
opened 온라인카지노,
checked the day’s basketball odds —
the city moved on without noticing.
At Fisherman’s Wharf,
I watched sea lions bark
as if they were part of the skyline.
I skipped the souvenir shops
and found a jazz bar instead.
Red lights.
Velvet booths.
A saxophone that made everyone fall silent.
After the last note,
I wandered through the Mission District.
Street art.
Taco trucks.
Hope written in ten languages.
Golden Gate Park was a world of its own.
Cyclists.
Painters.
Children pretending to fly.
I watched the sun set
behind the bridge —
red against gold.
Before bed,
I scrolled through 카지노사이트.
One bet lost.
Didn’t matter.
I had already won
the moment I saw that fog roll in.
Because San Francisco isn’t a place you conquer.
It’s one you dance with,
in and out of light.